"Before I could blink, the
crowd surged and pushed me nearly into an open convertible. A hand reached
out to steady me. I grabbed it and looked up … at a most astonishingly
serene human presence with laughing eyes, not a hair out of place."

A Tale of Four Novembers

By Tina

Early
November 1960, Chicago …

Where November winds seem to frost your very bones. Around 6 p.m., the
clouds were heavy metal gray, yet spewing forth delicate ice crystals,
which assaulted my nose and hair with little pricks of winter on its
way. With long, joyous strides, I fought them back with the sheer
ingenuousness of being 19 and on my own. Walking home from the Loop to
my room at the Y(WCA) was a daily delight—past glittering window
displays and haughty old hotels. I was an older Eloise creating my
future with impunity.

Yet on this shivery, shimmery evening, the crowd seemed heavier than
usual, slowing me down. Not easily impeded, I simply snaked my way
through to the corner. I looked up at the traffic light, where the icy
flakes made a halo around each green … yellow … red light. Not ‘til then
did I notice a virtual panoply of police presence. No sirens? Aha. No
danger. A parade? In November?

Before I could blink, the crowd surged and pushed me nearly into an open
convertible. A hand reached out to steady me. I grabbed it and looked up
… at a most astonishingly serene human presence with laughing eyes, not
a hair out of place, tanned, dressed to the nines … in November, in
Chicago, in the sleet and blustery wind. His face seemed to glow like
the traffic signal. Then he was gone! I continued on more slowly,
astonished, delighted.

Two weeks later … JFK began to shed his light on all of us.

November 1961, Milwaukee

Dark, damp and cold, Milwaukee once again lowered its gloom on me. Born
there, I had escaped to Chicago at 18—returned at 20, where I stepped
back into the future. The move never felt right. But I still walked with
long, purposeful strides, still creating my future undaunted. I was
attending Marquette and working as a ward clerk at a hospital. Walking
home late one night, the air was chill and raw, but stars glimmered
hopefully through a light mist. It was a quiet neighborhood of aging,
musty, set-back houses, all grey in the mist.
It was odd to hear light footsteps behind me … out of place, too fast.
Closer … no time for fear! I quickly crouched down, and he tripped over
me, grabbing at my ponytail. He was flat on his back, trying to raise
up. I saw the rage in his eyes. Then my adrenaline took over. I picked
up a landscape rock weighing easily over 50 pounds and hurled it toward
his head, barely missing—shaking with my own unconstrained fury. Never a
sound, never a word spoken or screamed … the predator became the prey.
He scrambled up and ran. Gone … as fast as he had appeared.

He was gone, and with him fled my naivete. In November. In Milwaukee.
Gone. His darkness spewed over my soul.

November (or about) 1962, crossing Kansas.

Restless—caught between one powerless man’s darkness and another’s
powerful light of hope, I was now half a ’60s flower child, half a wary
loner. Maybe in California … so I left Kansas City on a Greyhound bus
one cold, bright day headed to San Diego for a religious retreat. The
open fields across Kansas seemed almost a dreamscape. The setting sun
spread a golden pinkish glow under a turquoise sky just to my right out
the window.

The rhythmic surged of the bus was pulling my eyelids closed. Almost
dreaming … then a boychild of about eight years of age seemed to appear
on the seatback in front of me, like a movie projected on a glowing
screen. “I have chosen you and Jim as my parents. My name is Tobias,” he said. And
the vision faded. All the while, the fading sunset remained in my
peripheral vision—a reminder that I as fully awake the whole time. I
fell asleep smiling.

Later, San Diego smelled of gardenias. Jim, whom I had just met, visited
me in San Diego in April and proposed. Tobias was born eight years
later. The flower child had taken over … crossing Kansas. The light had
returned.

Late November 1963, Kansas City

Friday started with an early, frigid carpool ride across eastern Kansas
from Lawrence to Kansas City. My vision was blurry with sleep
surrendered too soon. It was Kansas, cold, stark to the bone. High,
streaky crystal clouds sliced the grey-blue sky. This Friday was the
last day of a tortuous, convoluted week, but thankfully my first day
back to work. I had just returned from a bleak roundtrip to Milwaukee,
most of it over black ice in an old, drafty, Pepto-Bismol-green Chevy,
with Jim driving too fast and my newly pregnant body objecting in myriad
ways.

My mother, Alice, had died on November 17th, Jim’s 21st birthday. Bleak
and stark was that trip. Alice would have willed herself to live had she
known I was pregnant—she had so wanted a grandchild. The year had been
daunting—married, pregnant, the funeral. Now it was almost over and I
was simply relieved to return to a normal workday. I craved the vacuous
routine as much as I craved sour pickles dipped in chocolate sauce.

My boss was a combination of Peter Lorre and a cigar-smoking Groucho
Marx—ominously funny. He hugged me hello and quickly retreated to his
inner office, remembering, I’m sure, how his ever-present cigar smoke
had inspired me to wretch into the trash can the week before.

Looking out from my window on the 12th floor, I noticed that the streaky
crystal knives had given way to an ominous, puffy, eerily glowing
display of winter’s arrival. I hoped then that I would be sent home
before snow iced the roads. I tediously gathered up legal forms to fill
them in with appropriate names regarding divorces and deaths. There was radio music coming from
the inner office. That lightened my mood—especially since the old man
NEVER did that. So I busily typed away, keeping one eye warily on the
darkening sky.

With a sudden WHOOSH, sullen grey sleet rammed the window and
immediately turned into angry ice rivulets. The old man burst through
the door—sobbing, tears blurring his vision. He grabbed onto my desk for
support and in a tremulous voice wailed, “They’ve killed him! JFK is
dead!”

Outside the wind was screaming like a madman in anguish. The light was
extinguished.